


Back Before

by yesterday4



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Gen, Ivar didn't always hate Sigurd, Little Ivar and Sigurd, They had good memories too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 14:56:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12509972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: Ivar didn't always hate Sigurd.A follow up to Season 4, Episode 20, just a quick little one-shot.





	Back Before

_Just like you do when you crawl around like a baby!_

 

Outside of the Great Hall, Thor bangs his hammer.  The sky lights up and Thor’s mighty blows make the bed shake.  Half hidden under the furs, Ivar is awake.   
  


Mother is not here in the bedroom; he had already groped for her frantically.  She is in the Hall with the others, drinking mead and laughing.  _Shoo, to bed_ , and Helga had taken Sigurd’s hand and cradled Ivar up high.  Ubbe and Hvitserk had dodged her, darting away too quickly for her to catch, and Mother had let them be with a shrug: _they are older_.  Thor was not active when Helga had tucked Sigurd into the furs he shared with the others, nor when Helga had put Ivar in Mother’s bed and stayed long enough to whisper to him stories of his father and Floki's adventures.   
  


Ivar knows that the noise now is Thor, and he knows that because he is big too and smart.  Still, here in bed, he starts to doubt this that he knows as fact.  What if the sound is Fenrir struggling in his chains?  What if he breaks free?  Ivar is secretly terrified of Fenrir.  
  


The next roll of thunder does him in.  With a little gasp, he scurries to the edge of the bed and holds his breath.  The drop _hurts_ without Mother there to help him, and his eyes fill.  The sight of the mound of furs hiding Sigurd grows watery and Ivar blinks as he pushes himself off the floor, wiggling towards his older brother as fast as his dragging legs will allow.

 

_I guess it must be hard for you now that your mommy’s dead, knowing that she was the only one who ever really loved you._

Sigurd is impossibly far away.  Ivar is afraid that he will not make it before Fenrir eats Odin and everything falls apart.  He almost cries out in relief when his palms touch fur.  He slumps down, groping for anything and finding Sigurd’s leg.  
  


“Go away, Boneless,” he grunts, kicking at his younger brother.  “Go to sleep!”  
  


The loudest sound yet chokes a sob out of Ivar, and he can indeed move quickly when he needs to.  Abandoning Sigurd’s leg, he scurries up until they are side by side.   
  


“Fenrir!” he cries, and he _is_ crying now, truly.  
  


When Mother is around, Sigurd doesn’t like Ivar.  Ubbe and Hvitserk do not mind him, but not Sigurd. Sigurd stares at his legs and says mean things and never _helps_.  It is embarrassing to be scared in front of Sigurd, when all Ivar has ever wanted is to impress him.  At nighttime, he secretly thinks of going raiding with him, once he has figured out how to work his legs and Sigurd isn’t embarrassed anymore.  They raid everyone and everywhere and they are famous.   
  


Now, Sigurd scoffs.  
  


“Do not be a baby,” he hisses.  “It’s only Thor.”  
  


But Ivar is not having it.  Ivar knows he is not a baby—he is _four_ now, and very wise—but this is all too much.  Sigurd cannot know that it is Thor.  Sigurd cannot know that it is not really Fenrir.   
  


Something about his little brother’s desperation softens Sigurd’s sleepy glare.  With a groan, he adjusts the furs so that Ivar is underneath them too.   
  


“Are you really that scared?”  Sigurd sounds incredulous, but then Sigurd is older and therefore even wiser than Ivar, even though Floki and everyone says that Ivar is the smartest.  Tonight, they are very wrong.   
  


Ivar nods and, taking advantage of Sigurd’s momentary softening, snuggles closer.  He presses his face to his brother’s shoulder, wiping his tears on the rough fabric of his sleeping shirt.  Sigurd is grumbling—Ivar can hear it through his brother's chest—but after a moment, he puts his arm around Ivar and lets him cuddle in.  
  


“It is only a storm, silly,” he whispers.  “Only a storm.”  
  


“I am not going back to my bed,” announces Ivar, already planning for the moment when Sigurd comes to his senses and shoos him away.   
  


“I do not think you can lift yourself back up into it,” Sigurd says, but his tone is not unkind.  “It is a storm, but I am your older brother.  I will protect you, even though you are a stupid baby.”  
  


Ivar _is_ a stupid baby, but Sigurd’s arms are comforting and familiar.  Afraid to push it, he closes his eyes, listening to Sigurd’s heart, which is louder than the thunder or Thor or Fenrir.  His older brother, who does not even like him half of the time, will protect him.  Ivar is with Sigurd and Ivar is safe.

 

_His axe leaves his hand before he is aware, whistling as it slips through his fingers and finding purchase with a heavy wet_ thunk _.  Ivar’s eyes widen and so do Sigurd’s, a lifetime of animosity bubbling well past its boiling point.  A moment passes and then another; Sigurd is making his way towards Ivar, who is horrified, shocked, and frozen._  
  


_Betrayal and anger flood Sigurd’s eyes, and Ivar_ knows _.  He holds Sigurd’s gaze and is four again, but this time his complicated brother cannot help him.  This time, nothing will be the same, nothing ever again, going onward.  Too late, not now, never again, and--_ __  
  
  
_Over._

 

 


End file.
